


Santa, Baby

by royalblues



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Barebacking, Butt Plugs, Christmas, Come play, Dom/sub, Lapdance, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Oral Sex, PWP, Verbal Humiliation, a drop of fluff, abuse of [correct] semicolons, have yourself a merry nc17 christmas, petnames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 11:31:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2849384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalblues/pseuds/royalblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan is the worst gift-giver in the universe. Brendon is swinging his hips with the grace of a trained ballet dancer. “Santa baby,” he croons, just a nanosecond later than Ryan realizes <em>oh</em>, it's <em>that</em> kind of show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Santa, Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [danielle camisodomy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=danielle+camisodomy).



> Unbeta'd, any flaws and mistakes are my own. Inspired by and dedicated to tumblr user [camisodomy](http://camisodomy.tumblr.com) and her “imagine brendon singing santa baby” post. Shoutout to the lapdance scene in Death Proof and Eartha Kitt for inspiration. Merry fucking Christmas here's some porn \m/

The best and worst parts of having Brendon as a house-mate is his crazy ideas. Take this one for example: the worst because Ryan is so hard it hurts; the best because Brendon is rocking his hips into Ryan's lap, saying “I bought this all for you, baby, do you like it?” and fuck, _yes_ , does Ryan like it.

 

Rewind the film reel of the evening a few hours, and Ryan is confessing that he has bought Brendon a terrible present, saying “you know I'm bad at gifts,” thinking _why are they so important anyway._

It's the twenty fourth of December and pitch black outside. No snow, not in California. All night they have been drinking black coffee with peppermint essence and far too much rum, Brendon talking and Ryan searching his own brain for excuses for why he can present no magical save-the-holidays-proof-that-I- _do_ -enjoy-your-company-annul-all-the-times-I've-kind-of-been-an-asshole-I'm-sorry-Christmas-present.

“I ordered it online; it hasn't come yet” seems a probable excuse. He can settle on that.

Then he imagines twelve hours from now: Brendon swallowing down disappointment at the breakfast table as he hands over a wrapped box, a homemade gift card, anything well thought-out and intricate and meaningful. And Ryan has nothing for him but a sweater in the wrong color and the wrong size. It's a merino-monstrosity that itches like Satan's left boil-covered testicle would, if Satan had balls, because Ryan is convinced Satan has no human form. Satan instead embodies the spirit of a capitalist crap holiday that forces lovers all over the world to come up with ideas other than a wad of cash and a blowjob.

If Brendon has any sense left in that pretty head of his, he will politely wear the sweater once, but he hasn't, not when it comes to Ryan, anyway. He'll wear the damn thing until it's worn down to frayed threads and more holes than yarn. If Ryan gave better gifts, maybe he'd be a better boyfriend (maybe he'd be a boyfriend in the first place), but he gives shitty Christmas presents and whenever he tries to say _I love you;_ he chokes on the words like fish bones; they scratch up his throat like raven claws, like metal gears, and those tiny screws that you always lose when you assemble IKEA furniture.

 

The arms on the clock are taking their time, hauling themselves closer and closer to midnight. If Christmas miracles do exist, Ryan is begging father Christmas or Santa or whomever to let time stand still. Brendon's voice interrupts him from the other side of the room: “alright, you're getting your present now. I haven't had time to wrap it. But I guess that's okay since you bought me the same sweater you're giving Jon in a different color.”

“Wha- no, I'm not,” Ryan tries to defend himself.

Brendon cocks his head, and the water droplets from his recent shower dribble down his fluffy bathrobe. “C'mon, I know you. You're awful at hiding things. It's in the closet underneath your own sweaters.”

But that's okay, his grin seems to say. He undoes the knot on his robe halfway. “So this can be your present to me. Let me treat you real nice and in return you treat me... less nice.”

He pushes back the chair he's been sitting on. It leaves an inviting space around Ryan's seat, although it's still not wide enough for what might be about to happen. It's something grand; Ryan senses that when the robe slips down one bare shoulder, then the other, exposing Brendon's collar bones and chest.

“Later,” Brendon says, “When the stores are open again, we return that sweater and you buy me the most expensive thing in the store I can find, _and_ you get to fuck me while I wear it. How's that?”

A desert landscape inhabits Ryan's mouth; it feels like sand is trickling down his throat. It's better than the barbed wire; this is familiar territory; he knows how to handle it.

Still, there's a fallen angel standing before him, shedding his robe far too slowly. Ryan can't place himself anywhere, let alone on the chair. His skin shrinks and tightens around his flesh like a too-small Christmas sweater, then his airways give in and the room around him begins closing like a casket.

The fabric of Brendon's robe slips to the floor. Underneath it he is wearing the smallest pair of red shorts to ever exist. A thin black belt at the waist digs into his hips, the fabric so thin you can see a bulge outlined through it. _Saint Nicolaus must be rolling in his grave right now_ , is all that races through Ryan's brain before Brendon twirls around to show the full glory of the shorts. The red fabric, viscose probably, ends in this ridiculous white feather edge that stops right above the place where ass and thigh meet.

To the rhythm of an inaudible tune, Brendon swings his hips with the grace of a ballet dancer. “Santa baby,” he croons, just a nanosecond later than Ryan realizes _oh,_ it's _that_ kind of show.

How he keeps his balance stuns Ryan to a point beyond just silence. He might actually wheeze if he stops biting down on his lower lip. Some kind of freakish demon shriek. It's astonishing how Brendon can dip so smoothly and so quickly without tipping over. Still in a crouch, he spreads his thighs, hands gliding up to frame the diminutive shorts.

Brendon is singing “just slip a sable under the tree...”

and his voice sounds like molasses tastes and feels, creeping into Ryan's ears and from there through his bloodstream.

“...for me.”

Ryan already wants to give Brendon a hundred fur coats and lay him down on them on the floor, fuck him on them, ruin them with stains no dry cleaner should ever be allowed to see.

“Been an awful good boy, Santa baby...”

He dips to the floor, eyes dark like the sky outside and shiny as the Christmas tree behind him. A feline expression adorns his features as he crawls across the carpet, his hips still swaying as if an invisible tail guides them. For now he's in control, considering the beneficial element of surprise, but soon enough he will be raw and human, with a very human voice begging Ryan to fuck every sensation but pain out of him; this is how it always goes.

“...so hurry down the chimney tonight.”

Ryan has bought a fucking sweater, but Brendon wants diamonds and checks and furs, as is he singing right now, the low tone and rum-breath tickling Ryan's chin:

“Santa, baby,” he almost _purrs._ His hand crawls up Ryan's thigh and why why why is Ryan wearing these fucking tight pants.

“been an angel all year...”

 _Well_ , Ryan thinks, _Lucifer was an angel, too_ , and as Brendon stands before him, singing, swaying in the smallest pair of shorts to ever exist, stroking his index finger up and down Ryan's chest like he _owns_ it, like it's his god damn property, Ryan wiggles the too-tight pants down to his knees.

Growing up as a Vegas kid, of course Brendon has learned. Even with only the few sneak-peaks between velvet curtains in the seedy clubs where anyone could enter, the kid's stolen tricks like a professional pick-pocketer specializing in inattentive magicians. He easily could've earned thousands of dollars in a single night with that filthy pout and hooded eyes, calling his audience (meaning Ryan) for ' _baby_ '. He is every burlesque show after midnight, he is decadence and depravity squeezed into a pair of shorts so tiny that the head of his dick pokes up over the belt: moist, pink, inviting. Ryan reaches out for it, gets his hand slapped away.

“Santa, honey,” Brendon sings, leans backward onto the very edge of the chair with his fingers clutching Ryan's knees. “One thing I really need: the deed...”

There he is, lap dancing away like a common whore, slung back with his arms around Ryan's neck and still grinding his ass into Ryan's semi-boner. “... to a platinum mine.”

Ryan would buy him a whole bank box full of diamonds and a castle made of gold so long as Brendon never stops dancing, rolling, gyrating his hips so sweetly, he can't possibly be human. There's something hard and metallic under the fabric. Ryan recognises it as the jeweled butt plug he gave Brendon for his last birthday, named something so ridiculous as a 'Princess Plug', which they laughed so much at, Brendon almost fell off the edge of the bed. Then he suggested that Ryan call him 'princess' in the future, and Ryan kind of stopped laughing, kind of almost jizzed himself right there like a pubescent kid who's only just discovered his father's dirty magazines.

It's probably the only one of Ryan's presents that Brendon genuinely enjoys wearing.

 

In the present, Brendon says “you can touch me anywhere, you know,” apparently not phased by the cock that rubs him though the shorts, wetting the material so thin, they might not even be there. “You want to, go on.”

Ryan lets his hands glide over the shorts. They stop below the ridges of Brendon's hipbones, the nails rake across his abdomen. Despite all his bravado, Brendon is sweaty and quivering. Could just be the excitement of dancing, though. Ryan lets his hands glide up to Brendon's nipples. He pinches them, wets his own forefinger to roll one between that and his thumb.

“Santa, cutie –,” Brendon tries, but he slips from the correct tone and hisses himself through it.

“You're wearing my plug,” Ryan comments in his Talking About The Weather tone, although not without pride.

“Of course,” Brendon breathes, “I've been wearing it all day, prepping myself for you.”

Without a break in the gyration of his hips, he holds forth one hand. Lord knows where he's hidden them until now, these clamps with little red bells decorating the chain between them.

 _Take control, go on, I'm offering it,_ his eyes say, his head tilted back to look at Ryan. Ryan reminds himself again, this is a routine. But, God, look at him: flushed cheeks and chest, body convulsing as Ryan digs his blunt nails into Brendon's nipples. “Been an _angel_ all year, remember?”

“Yeah, yes, you have,” Ryan says breathlessly and removes the clamps from Brendon's open palm. He's still writhing in Ryan's lap, even more and as if electrocuted when Ryan puts the left clamp in its rightful place. “All you want for Christmas is pain, huh?”

“Obviously.” Brendon's pulse pounds away and all the previous rhythm and grace has slipped from his dance, reduced to desperate little twists of his hips and his fingernails, which are digging into Ryan thighs and will leave bruises that last until the new year.

Ryan can feel the plug move inside Brendon underneath the shorts. His heart pumps with twice the velocity it's used to when he thinks about Brendon getting ready, stretching himself with his fingers, then pushing in the plug until only the jewel base remains visible. All for Ryan.

He places clamp number two and earns a moan that surges directly to his cock. “Hey,” he whispers and secures the clamps, pulls on the chain between them. It's heavier than the usual; even without weighing it Ryan can tell from the reaction that ripples through Brendon's torso and makes his arm shake, his grip on Ryan's thighs slip. “If you want pain, don't whine about it. No one likes a crybaby.” His gaze falls on the Santa outfit and he stifles a snort. “Naughty kids get no presents, do they? Naughty kids don't get to come.”

Brendon nods, tries to hide the smile that tightens the corners of his mouth. Soon either of them might laugh at the horrible pseudo-paedophilic phrasing and break the illusion, so Ryan yanks at the chain again, turning Brendon's borderline-grin into a small _o,_ his snicker into a soft groan.

“Want you to blow me. If you do it well enough, maybe I'll let you come. Now get off my lap, slut.”

Brendon tumbles to the floor, wincing when he hits the floorboards. Ryan almost asks if he's okay, but this is what they know; this is what they do. There is no room for benevolence.

Ryan likes control and Brendon likes attention, so he lets go of all that make-believe upperhand-teasing and transforms into a fragile, timid doll in Ryan's grip. From his place on the floor he looks up like a wounded animal, opening his mouth, _begs_

“please let me; I've been so nice. Been so good all year, remember that time –”

Ryan slaps him. He's never done that before, not in the face at least. When Brendon turns his head again, his cheek bears a pink print of Ryan's right hand. He has tears in his eyes too; his pupils are like still-damp ink, dark as Amarena cherries.

“Not until I say so. Greedy, are you?”

Brendon stares at Ryan's crotch as if he hasn't been fed in weeks: hungry, but his hands remain nicely folded in his lap until Ryan gives the green light.

“Touch me.”

It takes Brendon all of twelve seconds to wiggle down Ryan's underwear and stroke him with sweaty palms; he needs both hands to marvel at the size of his ~~boyfriend~~ not boyfriend, _house_ -mate, Ryan reminds himself. It never seizes to amaze Ryan how obsessed Brendon is with giving him head, and how he always has to fondle Ryan beforehand like a kid fondles a brand new toy on Christmas day.

Brendon leans in to kiss the tip, lapping away precome. Before he sinks his mouth all the way down, because he _can;_ he can do that and Ryan loves him for it, Ryan knots a hand in Brendon's hair to keep his head level.

“Not yet. Spit on it.”

Brendon adheres to the command; he puckers up and lets a glob of spit fall, slide down the length of Ryan's dick until his pubic hair causes it to slow down and stop.

“Now suck,” Ryan orders and lets go of Brendon's hair with a too-sudden movement.

Kiss number two evolves into Blowjob of The Year when Brendon starts bobbing his head up and down. He keeps his hands locked on Ryan's knees because he knows he can't touch anything but Ryan right now, let alone himself, at least not until Ryan tells him otherwise. Brendon takes him all the way down until his lips introduce themselves to Ryan's pubic bone and Ryan physically cannot force himself further down Brendon's throat.

This is the best part about it. Not the feeling of humiliating another human, but how gorgeous and happy Brendon looks with his throat bulging from cock. His face is just as blissful as when on stage, and Ryan wishes fans could see Brendon likes this to fully appreciate him. On the other hand is this only for him and no one else.

“Good boy, that's it,” Ryan is telling him, petting Brendon's head and the tiny hairs raised on the back of his neck. He lets his fingers slide down the knobs of Brendon's spine, and up again until they tighten in the still-damp tresses. Brendon smells like shampoo and he is still so clean, too clean, so Ryan wants nothing more than to hold down Brendon until he can spill down his throat and feel Brendon's throat muscles convulse around him. _Debase_ him.

But that wouldn't be degrading enough, so Ryan yanks off Brendon's head and forces him to stay between his thighs. He gives no warning before he releases the pent-up frustrations of the whole year onto Brendon's face, and Brendon has no time to close his eyes or mouth; he barely gasps before the seed is sliding down his forehead and onto his cheeks, from his cheekbone onto his neck. He looks like the finest form of art with Ryan's come like flecks and strokes of paint on his face, even more so when his small pink tongue darts out to lap it up the drops like a starved man offered crumbs of bread. You can smell the desperation mingled with the aroma of sex. If pure bliss has a scent, this is it, if paradise had a soundtrack it would be Brendon's small whines as he attempts to lick come off his nose.

“More, please.”

Ryan is a kind soul; he can't deny his baby this, so he nods, “clean me off,” and slides his (surprisingly still half-hard) cock across Brendon's lips. He suppresses the thrill that rattles his spine with every soft flick of Brendon's tongue but can't suppress the “God, look at you,” that escapes him. It's too soft for this game, too soft for the harsh words and blows and tomorrow's bruises, but God, look at him: pure, original sin.

To make up for it, he suggests “I could just leave you here, you know.”

Now it's Brendon's turn to nod, eyes cast low before they flick up and find Ryan's through still damp lashes. A miniscule white drop hangs from the longest of them, and Ryan swipes it away with his thumb. Brendon's lashes flutter underneath his touch.

“Maybe I'll visit Jon and Cassie tomorrow. Leave you alone all day, and when I return you'll be lying in the exact position I left you in, with your legs spread so wide that you could easily fit two people between them.”

A sparkler lights inside Brendon's eyes and you can see he tries to put it out, tries to ignore the idea, but it's too late.

“Oh, you _do_ want that? Want me to bring home a couple of strangers, let them use you while I watch?”

Brendon manages a breathy, too quick “you wouldn't. You don't want to share me with anyone.”

Too true.

Ryan says, “but have you _really_ been a good boy, talking back like that? See, I'm not sure if you deserve to have me fuck you. You don't look like you want it bad enough. I should just leave you here untouched.”

“No! Please...”

Ryan cocks his head and pretends he is scouring his tar-black soul an inkling of mercy. _God, look_ _at him, look at him look at him look at him._

“Should I? It is Christmas after all...” After hesitating for long enough he pretends to give in. “Okay. I'm gonna use my fingers instead, and that will be enough.

“But –” Brendon objects.

“You take what _I_ give you and you love it. Gonna need you to lay down for me.” Ryan raises Brendon by the chain, gently enough that it doesn't come off, but harshly enough that the bells jingle and Brendon moans in tune with them. Ryan tugs him all the way to the bedroom, leads him as if by a leash, and shoves him down on the bed. He takes a few moments to admire the sight of Brendon's hands tightened in the sheets in an attempt to keep them off himself, though still discretely trying to grind his ass into the mattress. His eyes screaming “fuck me,” his dick begging for attention.

Ryan sits on the creaking mattress, leans down over Brendon.

“Fully on your back, spread your legs. Show me who you belong to.”

“Yes. Yours only,” it comes. Brendon complies and scoots back on the bed. He's still wearing the shorts and the nipple clamps, the latter of which chime with every movement. Part of Ryan can't believe they actually make holiday-themed sex toys, another is thankful for it.

He unbuckles the Santa belt and pulls down the shorts as tortuously slowly as possible. Brendon has almost ceased to breathe. There's the plug, a wannabe-ruby shining between Brendon's cheeks.

“So pretty,” Ryan coos. “All dressed up for me, princess.”

Brendon twists under the pet name, but says nothing. He must shut the fuck up and he knows it. But hey, it's Christmas, and Brendon deserves more than ever to be called _Baby_ , _Princess_ , _Angel_. If Ryan is feeling generous, what's on the menu of the evening is _Slut_ and _Whore_ and _My_ _Personal_ _Fuckt_ _oy_ , in spite of that he truly loves Brendon. Ryan never says it, though, that's why they've got all these plugs and safe words and nipple clamps.

He pulls out the plug and Brendon clenches around the void, keening.

“I could fill you up with anything and you'd take it, whore. Take it for _me_ and because you're nothing but a hole to be filled. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yes, fuck, fill me up, please.”

Ryan pushes inside a finger. Then two. Ryan sees Brendon's eyes fall shut and blow wide open and hears him gasp and feels him clamp down on the fingers inside of him. Ryan adds another because he wants to, because Brendon is so open, so ready that it takes all of two seconds to locate his swollen prostate and stimulate it. Ryan touches and tickles and tortures, pulls out and tells Brendon he is worthless, a doll to be used and nothing else and what he means is _iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou_ and Brendon knows and answers with _fuck_ _me_ as if that's not what Ryan is already doing.

With a tight grip on the base of Brendon's cock and three fingers up his ass, he is so far gone that his eyes roll back in his head and he's bucking into the air, sobbing. At some point the plug is at play again; Ryan swiftly pushes it in and longs to be what ruins Brendon and makes him come apart.

“Can I come, can I, please, Ryan, please can I?”

And Ryan is hard again, so he forces Brendon into the mattress, yanks out the plug and shoves himself in its place. Brendon is warm and tight and wet, leaking onto the mattress.

“You can come when I have,” Ryan grits out. “What makes you think you deserve to come first when you're nothing but an item. A filthy, cheap bargain I could find on the streets and pay a dollar for? My toy, that's what you are. Toys don't talk, baby, toys please their owners.”

Brendon says nothing but still begs; he arches his back, grinds back against Ryan. _Fuck me, fuck me, please, you can come inside me, just wanna feel you come in me._ Ryan knows it by heart and the realization of this means that he gives in and lets go. The orgasm hits him like a sledgehammer; he's seeing stars and tasting them too, driven to the edge accompanied by Brendon's compliant silence.

“Now you can,” Ryan tells him as he pulls out. His come is trailing down Brendon's thigh. “Good boy.”

Brendon shudders so violently that the mattress trembles under him, then stills. Just to be cruel, Ryan edges his index finger back inside and enjoys the spasms that roll through Brendon. He can feel his own sperm on his finger, sticky and warm. Brendon lies wasted and strung out with the damned Santa shorts around his knees, gasping. Parts of his face are still dotted ghostly white, but he willingly opens his mouth for Ryan's fingers to suck off the liquid anyway.

“Like the way you taste? You're so desperate for my come you'd lick it out of yourself to have it.”

Brendon nods with his eyes closed. His cheeks are the same pink color as the roses Ryan feels obligated to buy the next time he passes a florist, as the droplets of saliva in cotton candy, the same pink hue of his abused asshole. Ryan lets the fingers on his other hand slide around the rim, feels Brendon sigh and spasm. The clock shows twelve past three in the night; it is now officially Christmas and if Santa exists and visits every house, then he'll get the shock of his life upon entering this particular bedroom. Not that Ryan has a chimney in the first place. He reminds Santa of that just in case the creep is listening, watching, even jacking off to the scene that's just unfolded.

“Are you done yet?” he asks Brendon, who's still kissing Ryan's fingers even long after they're clean. Brendon mouths an affirmative.

“Good... you've been so good for me tonight.”

Ryan removes the nipple clamps with gentle fingers, places the chain on the nightstand along with the plug, which he'll clean tomorrow. Then he lies down next to his boyfriend and kisses his forehead in the corner untainted by Ryan's own body fluids. He wipes it off as well as he can, both the kiss and the come, then draws Brendon's sweaty body closer.

“I swear I'll get you a better gift,” he mumbles. “Just please never stop this.” _Or I might die from_ _withdrawal_ , he doesn't add.

“Whatever, just get me something pretty,” says Brendon, half drifted off to sleep. Ryan lies passive for a while. His right hand is squashed under Brendon's torso but Brendon is asleep and oblivious to any pleas for mercy. They are filthy, the best kind of filthy where Ryan might never feel clean again, and no matter what he buys when the stores open again to let in thousands of dissatisfied gift receivers, he can never find anything as pretty in the store as the three words drifting from Brendon's unconscious mouth at half past three in the morning,

 _Love You, Too_.

 

 


End file.
